


A Double Bond

by amyfortuna



Series: 2015 Season of Kink (Card 1) [15]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Coming Untouched, Crossdressing, Father/Son Incest, First Time, Incest, Kissing, M/M, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:12:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feanor has a great idea to keep his father from marrying Indis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Double Bond

**Author's Note:**

> This fulfils my Season of Kink square for crossdressing. 
> 
> _All his love he gave to his son; for Fëanáro was like his mother in voice and countenance, and Finwë was to him both father and mother, and there was a double bond of love upon their hearts. Yet Finwë was not content, being young and eager, and desiring to have more children to bring mirth into his house._  
>  \- The Statute of Finwë & Miriel

As he grew older without his mother, Fëanáro had taken to going into her rooms, clinging to her beautiful dresses, feeling the soft cloth of her robes and gowns, perfect and richly embroidered as befitting her name. He fancied he could still catch the scent of her in the fabric, the memory of long-lost mother's love. 

He had just been told about Indis, about his father's impending marriage. He did not cry or lash out, but went very serious and sober, and quickly asked to be allowed to leave almost immediately, in a voice that did not sound like Fëanáro's at all, but some other voice. 

In the safe haven of Miriel's rooms, he threw himself down on her bed, where one of her gowns still lay, as if she had only just slipped it off, and burst into passionate tears, hugging the dress to himself. He wept until all the tears had burned away, buried against her pillows, and then rose, eying himself in the mirror curiously. He had glimpsed a portrait of her, hanging on the wall nearby, wearing the dress he held in his arms. Not for the first time, her resemblance to him became apparent, and he wondered, could he make himself look like her? Could he take his mother's place so Finwë would have no need of Indis? 

With Fëanáro, to think was to act, and he rushed over to her dressing table, examining his own face carefully. The hair was a problem; dark and stick-straight like his father's where Miriel's had been a curling cloud of silver. But that could be fixed, perhaps. He thought back to his work in the smithy: a metal rod, if heated to the right temperature, might curl hair, and if he used a certain chemical compound, it would leech all the colour from his hair, and then, in dim light at least, it could pass for hers. 

He was tall for his age, and precociously developed, already beginning to leave childhood behind, even so young. His mother had been relatively small, so they were near enough in height. He looked down at the various beauty implements scattered over the dressing table, and carefully picked up a small pot of lip tint, delicately dabbing it onto his lips and then rubbing them together in the way he had seen various ladies of the court do when they thought no one was watching. There were also pots of pink powder, and thick black liquid, and he wasn't sure about those. A bottle of her perfume still rested on the table; he carefully sprayed it to be sure it was still good, and smiled when he caught the scent he remembered from his earliest days. 

Her voice! Now that might be a problem. He did not remember Miriel's voice and was unsure of what it would sound like. He took a breath, and spoke carefully, softly, unlike his usual impetuous, imperious tones, "Finwë, my love, I have returned to you." His voice was shaking with nervousness, but he could fix that with enough practice. 

Taking great care not to harm the dress he was holding, he draped it across the chair in front of the dressing table, took one last look at himself in the mirror, hastily wiped his lips, smearing the lip tint horribly, and left the room, off to the smithy to find an appropriate metal rod for curling hair. 

\-----

A day later he returned, to find everything as he had left it. These days the servants never entered her rooms, and Finwë also had abandoned them. It was Fëanáro alone with her possessions, the ghosts of what she was, all she had done. 

He took off his clothes, slipped into her dress, and turned toward the mirror. With another quick glance at the portrait beside it, he immediately frowned. Despite the dress, even discounting his hair, he looked nothing like her. The shape of his body was all wrong. 

His eyes lit upon the drawers of the dressing table, and he pulled them open, hoping for a solution. In the bottom drawer several different kinds of undergarments could be seen, and he pulled them all out, laying them on the bed and looking them over carefully. There were several contraptions, clearly of her own making, designed to hold the breasts in place, and he lifted one up, examining it to see which way it would fit. 

After he got the dress back off again, he fastened the smallest of the breast garments around his chest, and, gathering up some remnants of soft cloth, stuffed them into the empty space. For his lower body, he looked around again and found several pairs of light leggings, cream-coloured, nearly the shade of his own skin, and he decided that would do. They would not show under the long dress. 

\-----

It was to be tonight. Everything was ready. Fëanáro had prepared a bleach solution for his hair, not wanting to commission a wig for fear it would be asked about. For some while now, he had been applying a mixture of hydrogen peroxide and ammonia to his dark hair, and was waiting for it to produce the near-white colour he hoped for. After everyone was in bed, he would slip down to the forge, and curl his hair with the rod he had made, which even now was waiting innocuously for him to heat up. 

The dress he would be wearing lay on the bed, along with undergarments and a pair of delicate silver shoes, which his feet were very nearly too big for. 

Once he washed the solution out, and looked at himself in the mirror, he sighed in a little bit of worry - the colour was not quite right, and his hair was yellow-gold rather than silver-white. But it could not be helped, and in the dim light of Telperion, would look close enough to her hair - or so he hoped. 

Hair fully rinsed and dried, he put on the undergarments. He'd sewed some soft cloth into the chest garment which would make it appear like there were real breasts inside, and the cream leggings hid the bulge between his legs well - he had been half-hard for most of the day and did not quite understand why this was. The dress, red and flowing, he slipped into, and added the silver shoes, a touch or two of silver and ruby jewellery at his throat, carefully made up his face and sprayed perfume, then slipped out into the night. 

He was not caught or noticed by anyone on his way to the forge, and the curling rod worked very well. He had forgotten to bring a comb or brush, and had to finger-comb the curls out to appear natural, but his hair was cascading in waves down his back, like Miriel's, even if the colour was slightly wrong, so he was content. 

He stole a glance in a long mirror as he walked through the palace, climbing steadily toward his father's bedroom. In this safe land there were no guards, and the halls were very silent. To his own eyes, he was nearly the image of his mother, and Telperion's light leeched the yellow from his hair and turned it to silver. Perfect. 

\-----

Finwë lay on his back in the wide bed, dreaming of a long-ago memory of Miriel's hands embroidering a red dress with silver stitching, and then she was wearing the dress, and it flowed out around her as she walked, hips swaying, emphasising her every curve and line. 

"Finwë, my love, I have returned to you," she said, in tones very unlike her usual quick patter, soft and measured, sounding almost shy. "I'm here for you, Finwë, my lord, don't you want me?"

Dream and reality blended together as Finwë woke and sat up. For there was Miriel before him, to his sleep-slowed mind, cloud of wavy light hair, flowing red dress and lips to match, and the scent of her perfume. He drew in a breath, suddenly wide awake, blinking several times. 

And it was not Miriel after all. It was a fair imitation but it was Fëanáro standing there, biting his lip, silver eyes cast down. "Come here," Finwë found himself saying, not wishing to disappoint him by showing that he was not deceived, but unsure how to proceed. 

Fëanáro made his way over to Finwë, shoes wobbling a little in his haste and nervousness. Finwë laid a hand on his face and drew him down, intending to kiss his cheek, but Fëanáro turned his face and kissed his mouth instead. 

The shuddering confusion of lips against his own and Miriel's perfume all around them had him hard, he told himself, and that was why he didn't break the kiss off immediately. Fëanáro explored his mouth with a shy, questing, tongue. Finwë trembled, and finally pushed him back. 

"Stop! Stop," he said, more breathlessly than he thought. "We cannot do this."

"Are you not my husband?" Fëanáro breathed, and Finwë could no longer play the game. 

"Are you not my son?" he said, and at Fëanáro's crestfallen look gathered him in, dress, shoes and all, holding him tight, wanting only to take the hurt from his face. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Fëanáro, my beloved." What happened then was a strange sort of madness; holding Fëanáro in his arms, he pulled him fully onto the bed, rolled over on top of him, and kissed him again, long and lingering. 

Fëanáro moaned underneath him, and gasped out breathlessly, hips shuddering against his father. He came so hard that Finwë could feel every pulse of it between their bodies, and barely resisted the urge to follow him into bliss. Shuddering in a heady mixture of revulsion and desire, he let go of Fëanáro, who lay limp, wide-eyed and flushed up to his ears with the pleasure of his first orgasm. 

"We cannot - I should not have - Fëanáro, I -," Finwë stammered. 

But Fëanáro, recovering, laughed and sat up, flinging his arms around his father's neck. "Do it again!" he exclaimed. " _Tatanya_ , that was so good. Make it happen again!" 

"No!" Finwë said, a little more strongly than he had intended, and then, hearing himself, he softened, laying his arms around Fëanáro's waist. "I should not have kissed you like that. You are too young and it is forbidden by the Valar. You should discover these pleasures on your own and then later again with the bride of your choice, not with me." 

Fëanáro pouted a little. "Is this what you felt with Mother?" 

"Yes," Finwë said. "And I know what you were trying to do, but you cannot replace her, baby, you have your own place in my life, dearly beloved son. You cannot be a wife to me as well."

"Why not?" There was a determined tone to Fëanáro's voice. "You don't need to replace my mother with Indis. I can be both a son and a wife, if you show me what to do." 

Finwë took a deep breath. "No, my love, you cannot. For one thing you cannot give me more children." 

Fëanáro laid his head down on Finwë's shoulder. "I cannot bear them for you," he said after a little while, "but if you wait until I am grown, I will give you all the sons you could wish for." 

Finwë laughed a little. "Oh my son, I am sure you will, but I cannot wait that long. Don't you see, I must marry Indis. Please understand. I want to give you little brothers and sisters, and someone who can be a mother to you." 

"But you have been both to me," Fëanáro said, punctuating his words with a kiss first to one of Finwë's cheeks, then the other. "Why can you not be everything?" 

"I -," Finwë began, and then paused. A strange sort of foresight swept over him and he shivered. It was only a feeling of far-off disaster, a glimpse of a darkening sky, a sense of marring, of the world being knocked askew. "I promise," he began again, "that if a day should come when I am once again alone, if you desire this yet, then come to me, and I will not deny you." 

Fëanáro nodded solemnly. "I will not forget," he said. 

\-----

_300 years later_

The halls of Formenos were cold and it was dark this far north, so dark you could see the stars shining. It reminded Finwë of life long ago, before Valinor, before strife and woe between his children. He stood looking out of the window at the snow-capped mountains, shivering, and turned when he heard a knock on the door. 

"Come in," he said. 

Fëanáro wore a red dress, and looked up at him through smoky eyes. His black hair cascaded down his back in waves, and Finwë thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

>  _"But Indis parted from me without death. I had not seen her for many years, and when the Marrer smote me I was alone."_  
>  \- Finwë, The Statute of Finwë & Miriel


End file.
